Hot Banana

Taster for a serialised memoir

I’ve got Kid Rock’s All Summer Long throbbing in my ears.

At around 2 mins 23 seconds, a dirty guitar solo thrusts itself into the track. It’s pure, skin-tight-denim-cock-rock. A gloriously tumescent cock of rock. I defy anyone to listen to it without becoming slightly aroused.

The track samples Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama which is what I based the lo-fi vocal intro/outro to my podcast on. I have a personal affinity with this song, because I used to sing it when I was in various bands; and because it’s objectively one of the most perfectly crafted rock songs of all time.

For as long as I can remember, America has been draped across the backdrop of my life like its iconic flag. The America of my mind probably looks like one of those films that behavioural psychologists make, with inserted subliminal images that flash past: skyscrapers, steamy sidewalks, ambition, CIA, freedom of speech, whale-sized cars, deserts, the dollar, hamburgers, Warhol, AIDS, movies, wars, assassinated presidents, guns, 911, civil rights, and candy. My perception of what these images represent has changed significantly, although the glorious soundtrack has remained unchanged: Mahalia Jackson, Elvis, Ray Charles, Aretha, Tom Petty, Ry Cooder, and Prince, to name just a few. It’s an embarrassment of musical riches that has gladdened my lugholes since I was a chubby-limbed toddler. I’ve long thought that the tension in the beat between the relaxed black drummer and the anxious white vocalist is a perfect representation of modern American culture. As with any creativity that’s worth while, it’s a damn sexy tension that has spawned collaboration, not division.

My parents had friends on both coasts; one of my earliest memories is getting ringworm in Cape Cod. My father was a professional guitarist and journalist – he was at the Melody Maker for a time. My sister and I were drenched in music of the highest calibre. On car journeys we had various cassettes, including Little Feat’s Down on the Farm and we spent many joyous, laughter-filled hours singing three-part harmony back-up, while Dad sang and played. One of our faves was Elvis’ (Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear. We would sing the words ‘hot banana’.

Baby let me be (Hot Banana) you’re lovin’ Teddy Bear (Hot Banana)

Dear reader, it gives me great pleasure to know that from now on you’re probably going to sing hot banana when you hear Teddy Bear.

I’ve always thought that the rules of chronology are overrated, so I’m fast forwarding to 2008 when I flew to Los Angeles to make a short film about a girl who believes that Bette Midler is her real mother.

I now realise that this was to be one of the most significant times in my life.

With Bette Midler at the party after the press night of The Showgirl Must Go On in Las Vegas

TO BE CONTINUED…